Identifying the Ripper
by WayWardWonderer
Summary: Sherlock Holmes takes on the case of identifying the infamous serial killer known as 'Jack the Ripper'. The investigation will prove to be his most challenging and dangerous case of his illustrious career when he comes face to face with the blade himself, becoming injured by the madman's blood lust! Can the World's Greatest Detective stop the World's Most Enigmatic Killer in time?
1. Four Victims

**Sunday; September 30th, 1888:**

The cold autumn rain drenched the streets of London in a damp chill that cut to the bone. Two of London's finest officers awaited patiently in the alley of the Whitechapel District for the arrival of the famous Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr. John Watson. Beneath a blood stained sheet lay the latest victim in a long, enigmatic series of gruesome murders that had plagued and frightened the busy streets of London.

"Another victim of our unknown assailant?" Sherlock Holmes walked into the alley, pipe aglow between his teeth. Dr. Watson followed close behind leaning heavily on his cane as he walked.

"Yes sir. Another young miss has been slain." The officer stepped aside as Sherlock approached the body. "Nothing has been touched, just as you asked."

"Very good." Sherlock stopped down and lifted the sheet away from the victim. His steel eyes skillfully scanned the body for clues before replacing the fabric over her face and standing up. "Same as our previous two victims: Young female with a reputed 'late night' habit. Throat has been slit with a blade angled from left to right; indicative of a right-handed individual. After the initial attack the barbaric villain proceeded to mutilate the abdomen, removing several internal organs in the process."

With this confirmed connection and revelation Watson then stooped down, though not as gracefully as Sherlock, and he too, lifted the sheet to examine the victim. "The cuts that appeared on the former victims to be the work of a surgeon, or at the very least a student of medicine. It's not probable that a man of lesser education would be capable of such precise incisions or organ removal." Watson stood back up with the assistance of his cane. "Holmes, this brute had also been known to mutilate the victims' reproductive regions and yet there is no sign of mutilation on this woman's body."

Sherlock took the pipe from his mouth. "I noticed Watson. It is most likely that an unexpected arrival of a potential witness forced our murderer to flee before his work was finished. However, It is becoming increasingly clear that this madman is like none that we have encountered before. I fear this string of vicious attacks is not yet over."

From out of the darkness a third police officer arrived on the scene in a huff. Rain water from the forming puddles splashed and echoed through the alleyway with each of the officer's hurried footsteps. "Mister Holmes! Doctor Watson!" He came to an abrupt halt just behind the duo. "There's been another murder! There's another victim!"

"What?" Watson couldn't believe that there had already been a second attack on the same night. "Where? Where is the victim? Speak up!"

"Mitre Square!" The officer answered between panting breaths.

Sherlock took the small golden watch from his pocket and noted the time. "It appears that both victims met there end within the same hour. Most unusual."

A short carriage ride to the second scene followed by a quick examination confirmed the same pattern of attack and mutilation. The rain washed away some of the blood that had been dying the street a sickly crimson hue that reflected ominously in the fiery glow of the street lamps above. Watson rose away from the body and reported his anatomical analysis to Sherlock. "Her left kidney has been removed entirely as well as a portion of her uterus."

Sherlock bowed his head as he mentally attempted to put the odd pieces of the mysterious puzzle together. "There was a witness, correct?" He looked up and to the officer who had taken control of the crime scene.

"Yes, apparently a Mister Joseph Lawende had passed through the square with two acquaintances just prior to the attack. He gave a description of a man he swears he had seen in the company of this young woman before her demise: He was fair-haired man of rather shabby appearance."

"What do his companions have to say?" Sherlock relit his pipe as he awaited the answer.

"Well, unfortunately neither of his friends can confirm this man, or this woman for that matter."

"What you are saying is that we a have a witness who is unsure of what he may or may not have witnessed?" Sherlock sighed with heavy frustration. "I see. Where, might I ask, in which direction did this shabby looking fellow wander?"

"I believe he was heading for Goulston Street."

"Very well." Sherlock turned on his heel and began to stride toward the aforementioned street. Watson noticed his colleague and deftly joined him at his side.

The duo carefully walked toward the street, their eyes darting about in every direction in an attempt to identify any potential evidence that the killer, or perhaps killers, may have left behind in their haste to escape. With the late September rain rinsing away blood or washing away physical objects it was absolutely crucial that the investigation remained ongoing.

"Watson, look there!" Sherlock motioned toward the entrance to a tenement down the street. As they approached the item in question, it was easily identified as a bloodied apron. "Property of our most recent victim, without a doubt."

"How can you so sure, Holmes?" Watson was still keen on asking Holmes about his methods of deduction.

"Despite the rain the blood on this tattered garment is still abundant and fresh. As we strode down the street I noted small droplets of blood that managed to elude the rain stained the street and lead us precisely from our victim to this location."

"Fortunate that the rain didn't completely dissolve the trail." Watson look at his colleague and noticed that Sherlock was now fixated on the wall above the dropped apron. "Holmes, what is it?"

"See for yourself."

Watson's eyes focused on the wall. In white chalk was the crudely written sentence: _'The Juws are not the men To be blamed for nothing' _

"A message left by the killer?"

"Perhaps. However, do consider that a message of anti-Semitism would not be uncommon with the sudden influx of immigrants that have entered the country as of late."

This time Watson sighed heavily. "The message could be unrelated to the crime; a hateful red herring in an attempt to confuse the police. What is our next move?"

"We wait Watson. Sooner than later, the killer will reveal himself."

_**...to be continued...**_


	2. Seven Suspects

**Thursday; November 8th, 1888:**

Two months had passed since the last murder at the hands of the serial murderer that had been dubbed 'Jack the Ripper'. Little evidence had been properly collected and preserved from the crime scenes, while the rainy weather only aided the killer in hindering the investigation process. Four young women had been butchered on the streets of London and no one had been identified as the culprit, as such the victims had yet to receive their due justice.

Sherlock Holmes spent his waking hours meticulously reviewing the evidence from each murder, analyzing every detail of the crime scenes and eliminating potential suspects until only seven names remained remained. All evidence suggested a man of education as well as a man of considerable skill with a blade, such either as a medical doctor or perhaps a butcher. It was crucial to deduce a motive as well as the likelihood of each man possessing these key skills.

Montague John Druitt. A barrister who also worked as an assistant schoolmaster from Blackheath of London. A man of education no doubt, however he had a solid alibi during the events of the first murder.

Seweryn Kłosowski: alias George Chapman. He had no relationship with Annie Chapman, one of the Ripper's victims. An immigrant who changed his name upon arrival in England wherein he is employed as a barber. No motivation for the murders could be pinpointed but his skill with a blade favored his odds as the suspect for the local inspectors.

Aaron Kosminski**, **born Aron Mordke Kozminski, a current resident of the Whitechapel District. Though his skills seem rather unremarkable he appears to be deranged and paranoid with little ability to form healthy relationships. His mental state and close proximity to the murders, as well as fitting the description of the man supposedly seen at the latest murder, was enough to catch the attention of the investigators.

Michael Ostrog, a Russian conman with several aliases. It was a rumored but unable to be substantiated that Ostrog was a surgeon in the Russian Navy. Despite the requited education and skill it seemed unlikely that such a man would devolve from petty schemes to murder so abruptly.

John Pizer, a boot maker who also resided in Whitechapel, who had also been previously convicted of a previous stabbing offense and had been reputed to assault several prostitutes. Seeing as all the victims had been confirmed prostitutes the above evidence and previous acts of violence should have been damning. Unfortunately he too had alibis for two of the murders.

James Thomas Sadler, a man known to frequent the company of prostitutes. He even appeared to be good friends with one young woman, though his nightly habits and apparent addiction to the 'drink' created a gray area where a vile temper could reveal itself while under the influence of drink, causing the man to attack the women in a drunken stupor.

Francis Tumblety, a man who made a good fortune as an 'Indian Herb Doctor' from across the pond. Personality wise this man was deemed both a quack and misogynist who had been connected with the death of a former patient but escaped prosecution, he had even been connected to the assassination of the former President of the United States; Abraham Lincoln. Even then the detestable parasite was released without conviction. The following evening he had been arrested for engaging in sexual acts of an illegal nature, but it had been reported that the deplorable deviant had fled to France while awaiting trial.

Seven men had been suspected but no one man could be clearly identified as the murderer in question.

For the past eight weeks the Stradivarius sang a somber melody that echoed mournfully throughout the flat of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock seldom slept as the threat of another victim falling prey to the Ripper haunted his unrestful dreams and relentlessly plagued his thoughts. Watson did his best, as both Sherlock's friend and doctor, to encourage Sherlock to try to rest or at the very least eat something.

"Come now Holmes, you'll catch the fiend in due time." Watson walked into Sherlock's private chamber and spied the tall detective pacing anxiously in front of his mist covered window, the Stradivarius still in his pale hands.

As Watson stepped into the room the bow suddenly fell still, the strings no longer in contact. The Stradivarius dropped at his side in Sherlock's tired grip. "When Watson? Tell me when I am going to identify and catch this madman."

Watson sighed heavily in empathy knowing all too well that Sherlock was nearing his physical limits as well. "You know as well as I that I cannot see into the future."

"And yet here you claim that I will undoubtedly stop this lunatic."

"Sherlock, please listen to reason." It was uncommon for Watson to address Sherlock by his surname. "You're exhausted. If you don't rest you are going to collapse and be of no use to anyone. What then?"

Placing the now silent violin and bow on top of the desk that had been completely covered with assorted paper and photographs all connected to the Ripper. Sherlock turned toward his colleague, his eyes red with fatigue and stress. "It appears I am of no use to anyone at this moment." Not wanting to engage any further into a needless argument Sherlock grabbed his long trench coat and pushed his way past Watson who had planted himself firmly in the opened doorway.

"Holmes? Holmes! Where are you going?" Watson followed Sherlock to the top of the stairs and watched as his taxed colleague walked down the stairs at a brisk pace.

"Out." His arrogant and impatient reply only emphasized the amount of pressure he had placed on himself.

Watson shook his head as the door to the flat slammed shut. He contemplated following Sherlock but opted to let him be. "Holmes, what I am to do with you?"

_**...to be continued...**_


	3. Returning to the Scene of the Crimes

**Thursday; November 8th, 1888:**

The heavy autumn rain lessened and would soon turn to snow as the months passed, giving way to winter. The weather seemed all too fitting with the somber mood that weighed heavily on the hearts and minds of London's citizens during this bleak time.

Sherlock walked alone down the wet sidewalk of the rain drenched city. His eyes were fixed upon the ground that he tread underfoot as his mind still attempted to piece together the puzzle that was the Ripper's true identity. It appeared that on this dark, dreary and damp night Sherlock walked the streets alone. His tall figure and dark coat cast a sinister shadow on the wall as he walked, small pockets of mist that encompassed his escaping breaths added to his silhouette a sinister ambience.

Unconsciously, the consulting detective found himself walking through Buck's Row; the first crime scene in the spree of murders that belong to the Ripper. Mary Ann Nichols' body had been discovered in the early morning on August 31st, her throat cut twice and her abdomen mutilated by the hands of a devious predator. The blood that once stained the ground had been washed clean by the rain, but the site itself would be forever tainted by the memory of her murder.

Sherlock stared silently at the location where her body had been found, his mind drifting uncontrollably back to the night when he had been summoned by the investigating police force. There was no rain puddles on the stones of the alley that morning, only blood.

Despite the best joint efforts from the police force and the consulting detective there were no significant breaks in the case. Every lead that had been followed only uncovered more questions than answers. When a second victim was discovered only eight days later the city began to fear that an unidentified mass murderer was on the loose, and could very well be someone they knew.

Saturday September 8th on Hanbury Street of Spitalfields, the body of Annie Chapman had been discovered in the doorway of a backyard. Just as Nichols before her, Chapman's throat had been cut open twice and her abdomen mutilated. During this investigation a witness came forward claiming to have seen Annie in the company of a man of shabby appearance. Unfortunately the witness description was not enough to hold any one man accountable for the killings.

His mind still wracking over the possible identity of the Ripper, Sherlock returned to the most recent crime scene that had occurred only eight days prior; Elizabeth Stride's murder in Dutfield's Yard. The rain destroyed what little evidence that would've been left behind by the killer, and with the report of a third Ripper victim being discovered on the same night prevent a complete investigation of the crime scene before the body was taken away.

However, before leaving the first scene for the next Sherlock noted that Stride's body lacked the characteristic mutilation of the previous victims during the initial investigation. The murder of Catherine Eddowes so soon after Stride seemed to indicate that the Ripper had been interrupted before he could finish his 'work' with Stride. The possible interruption could also explain why a killer, who had previously been so meticulous in covering all traces of his crime, would leave behind a bloodied apron that seemingly belonged to Eddowes as he fled the scene of the crime.

Choosing to act on an intuitive hunch, Sherlock walked back to Mitre Square. The cold autumn rain falling heavier now than it had earlier in the evening, the night air chilling the rain to that of ice. He pulled his collar up higher to try and cover his ears and throat. Thankful that he remembered to grab his deerstalker cap he pulled it down lower over his eyes to shield his sight from the heavy drops of rain as he continued on his long walk toward the distant Square.

Upon arrival of the now cleared scene he discovered than a kindhearted passerby or citizen had left a white lily as tribute to the victims of the Ripper. The beauty of the lone flower could not however cover the unfortunate smell of stagnant blood that still lingered in the air. It was from this scene that the tattered, bloodied apron had been taken by the Ripper. During this moment of reexamination a new theory donned on the overactive mind of the consulting detective.

"Perhaps, I have been mistaken. The very notion that the apron had been dropped through carelessness on the Ripper's behalf was inaccurate. Perhaps, the apron had been dropped intentionally as either a taunt to the investigators or as bait." He spoke aloud to no one in general, almost forgetting that on this cold night he left the flat alone.

The thought was too tempting, too sinister to simply cast aside or even cast doubt. Following the same path that he and Watson had followed once before on the night of the double murders, Sherlock returned to the tenement doorway on Goulston Street. The chalk written anti-Semitic graffiti that once marred the brick wall above the location of the dropped apron had long since been washed clean. It surely had been removed by the police force to prevent possible anti-Semitic riots after its discovery.

Shaking is head at the disregard and destruction of what could be vital evidence, Sherlock stooped down to investigate the spot on the ground where the apron had been discovered. His brilliant mind felt conflicted as he eyed the weather beaten ground. On one hand the thoroughly investigate a crime scene was crucial by all means, but on the other hand he knew that what evidence could have been left behind had already been removed or destroyed by the frequent rains.

With his back turned to the vacant dark street Sherlock was exposed and unaware of a lone figure approaching from the darkness...

_**...to be continued...**_


	4. The Ripper

**Thursday; November 8th, 1888:**

Calm yet heavy, evenly paced footsteps echoed off the stone pavement with a soft splash as the enigmatic figure in the dark approached the lone detective. In the soft glow of the street lamps a glint shined from the small scalpel grasped in the unknown mans gloved hand. As Sherlock continued to eye the crime scene for more clues a sudden knot of dread in his stomach instinctively warned him of the encroaching danger.

Turning quickly Sherlock realized in an instant that he had finally come eye to eye with the very madman he had been trying to identify. The man's face was concealed behind a thick scarf, a tall dark hat was pulled low over his face obstructing his features and his long black coat's collar was pulled up high, shrouding his face even further with shadows.

Before Sherlock could react to the Ripper's unexpected presence, the fiend plunged the blade of the scalpel into Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock let out a sudden gasp of pain and clutched at his injured shoulder as the Ripper pulled the weapon from the bleeding wound. Sherlock attempted to step back but the Ripper was swift and precise with is attacks! Again and again the Ripper sliced through the air, the blade cutting away at Sherlock's now tattered coat as the cold steel met warm, exposed flesh. Sherlock grabbed ahold of the Ripper's hand and used his adrenaline fueled strength in an attempt to restrain the murderers frenzied assault. The blood dripping from the wound in his shoulder, more crimson drops fell from the multiple lacerations that marred his chest, arms and hands. Sherlock stepped back off the curb of the street and lost his footing. Through the heavy drops of cold rain that continued to fall, Sherlock himself fell hard on his back onto the rain soaked street.

With little way to defend himself against the vicious assault Sherlock struggled to focus on his attacker's face to identify the Ripper's through the haze of the pain that was wracking his body. If he managed to survive he could later name his attacker, but the darkness of the night and heavy clothing concealing the Ripper's face made an accurate identification impossible.

The Ripper's eyes were large and bright with madness as he stood over Sherlock as a predator stands over its wounded prey. Sherlock struggled to pull himself away from his attacked but the slick road and injuries rendered the attempt moot. The Ripper kneeled down over Sherlock's face, his stagnant heavy breath sickened Sherlock as he stared into the eyes of the lunatic. Using his knee the Ripper pinned Sherlock's injured arms down onto the street as he continued to slash away at the detective's prone form. Sherlock struggled helplessly beneath his attackers surprising strength, his voice unable to call out for help.

A shrill police whistle suddenly filled the chilly air of the bloodied street, followed by a barking order. "Stop! Police!" A patrolling constable happened upon the scene of the attack. He ran as quickly as he could toward the brutal act, calling for attention and ordering the maniac to stop.

The Ripper stopped for a moment and looked Sherlock directly into his red, pain filled eyes. Placing both of his hands on either side of Sherlock's head the Ripper slammed Sherlock's head down with great force against the rain and blood coated street before standing up and running off into the distant darkness. The poor lighting and drifting fog made it impossible for the constable to track the culprits location.

Sherlock's ear were ringing from the tremendous impact of his own skull slamming against stone. Darkness tunneled his blurring vision and his eyes closed heavily as he knew no more of the world around his conscious mind.

The rescuing constable slide to a halt and kneeled down next to Sherlock's unconscious form. "Mister Holmes! Mister Holmes!" He gently patted Sherlock's face but was unable to provoke a response.

Thanks to the distinct whistle that sounded off as soon as the constable spotted Sherlock being attacked, a small crowd of onlookers exited their homes and began to converge on the scene. When the curious gathered mass recognized the bloodied face of Sherlock Holmes laying in a puddle of his own blood a good Samaritan ran off toward Baker Street to inform Dr. John Watson of the situation that had just transpired.

In the meantime Watson was still awake and awaiting to return of his colleague. Pacing the length of the flat on Baker Street, Watson passed by the glow of the roaring fireplace for the hundredth time as he pulled the small watch from his from his trouser pocket. Midnight.

* * *

><p><strong>Friday; November 9th, 1888: <strong>

Willing to submit to Sherlock's stubbornness Watson walked down the stairs and toward the large doorway to retrieve his coat before walking out into the night to search for his long absent friend. Just as his hand touched the cold, brass texture of the large door handle an abrupt knock on the heavy wooden door startled the preoccupied doctor.

Opening the door quickly Watson spied a young man, drenched from head to toe in rain and sweat with a panicked look on his face anxiously staring back at him. "Yes? What is it young man?"

"Doctor Watson?" The man's voice was shaking with a thick Irish accent.

"Yes."

"You must come with me quickly sir, it concerns Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock?" Watson felt his heart skip a beat as dread set in. "Has something happened? What has happened to him?"

"Come, I'll explain on the way!" He stepped away from the door and focused his eyes on the dark, wet street from whence he came.

The poor weather exasperated Watson's limp, he struggled to follow the youth as he led the way to where Sherlock still lay on the stone street. Continuously falling cold rain and seeping blood created sickly puddles that soaked into the tattered fabric which chilled the wounded detective to the bone.

Sherlock remained still.

_**...to be continued...**_


	5. Rain and Blood

**Friday; November 9th, 1888:**

Watson felt his blood chill as he caught sight of Holmes laying lifeless on the wet stone street. Ignoring the pain in his leg he made his way quickly toward his fallen friend and knelt down next to the unconscious detective. The puddles of rain water and blood instantly stained Watson's trouser leg a sickly crimson that could never be washed. The heavy rain never ceased as Watson began checking over his injured colleague, the cold drops didn't rouse Sherlock in the slightest.

Wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's wrist he released a sigh of relief as he found and counted his friend's pulse. Gently Watson lifted Sherlock's heavy, swollen eye lids and looked into his friends blood shot eyes. Feeling a wave of nausea already welling up in his stomach, Watson steeled himself as he gently pulled the tattered fabric of Sherlock's heavy trench coat away from the bleeding wounds that marred his slender, pale body.

The constables at the scene proceeded to back the crowd of concerned onlookers away from the scene.

Several deep lacerations left painful, seeping wounds on Sherlock's abdomen, chest, arms, hands, right shoulder and collarbone. A small trickle of blood was running from the corner of Sherlock's mouth, down his chin. Looking over his shoulder, Watson sought a man of strength to help him carry Sherlock back to their flat on Baker Street. Only few members of the crowd weren't deterred by the abhorrent sight unfolding before them, one of these onlookers was the same young man who had guided Watson to the scene.

The young man understood what it was Watson would ask of him and without hesitation knelt beside the doctor and injured detective.

"Doctor? What can I do?"

"Help me. I will require assistance to carry him back to Baker Street."

"Baker Street?" The young man was puzzled. "Would it not be best to take Mr. Holmes to the hospital?"

Watson sighed. "I am his physician and friend. I can treat him just as well at the flat as another doctor in a hospital."

Nodding the young man did as he was asked. He positioned himself near Sherlock's legs ready to help move the injured man. Sherlock hooked his arms beneath Sherlock's and proper his injured friend up from the wet, bloodied stone street. Sitting Sherlock upright Watson put his hands on either side of Sherlock's face to hold his head and neck steady as his battered colleague leaned heavily against Watson's legs and chest.

From down the street the echoing clatter of horse hooves and rattling carriage wheels drew close.

One of the constables waved the carriage down and opened the compartment door. Watson allowed Sherlock's head to fall back and rest against his shoulder as he motioned for the young man grab Sherlock's legs. Working together the two men lifted and awkwardly carried the downed detective into the awaiting carriage.

With Sherlock laying flat on his back on the seat of the carriage, Watson used his hands to prop Sherlock's head slightly upward with his hands. His young assistant climbed into the carriage and pounded on the roof of the carriage to tell the driver to go. "221B Baker Street!"

"Yes, sir!" The driver whipped up the horse and proceeded to drive to the address at a swift pace.

Watson used his thumb to wipe to the stream of blood from Sherlock's mouth, leaving a red smudge where the fresh blood had flowed. "Take it easy Holmes, I'll get you patched up before you know it." In his mind Watson began listing every possible complication that Sherlock could experience due to the severity of his numerous injuries and to his prolonged exposure to the cold weather.

The young man had been watching in awed silence as Watson carefully monitored Sherlock. "Doctor Watson?"

"Yes?" Watson never took his eyes from his friend.

"Is Mister Holmes going to make it?"

"Yes, young man. He will." It was then Watson realized he didn't even know the man's name despite all that he had done for both Sherlock and himself. "I must thank you for your assistance, please tell me your name."

"My name is Robert. Robert O'Shay."

"Thank you, Robert."

"Not a problem, doctor. If anything, it was my honor to be of assistance to the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Though, I do wish it were under better circumstances."

"As do I."

The carriage came to a halt outside the entryway of the flat. The driver had scrambled down from his seat and opened the door wide as Robert and Watson carefully lifted Sherlock off the seat and down from the carriage toward the door. Moving quickly the driving pushed the door to the flat open allowing Watson and Robert to walk inside without stopping.

"Up the stairs." Watson made his way to the staircase, his back toward his destination.

Obeying Watson's orders Robert carefully walked up the steps, moving only when Watson moved. Step by step the two men climbed upward until they reach the top of the staircase.

"Turn left." Watson was having a great deal of difficulty maneuvering while carrying Sherlock's deadweight with his bad leg.

Robert sensed that Watson was losing his strength and opted to carry Sherlock by himself. With quick precision Robert managed to move of his arms from Sherlock's legs up to his shoulders and he gently took all of Sherlock's weight into his arms. "Doctor, I can carry him for you. Lead the way."

Watson, though reluctant to let his friend go, was relieved to have the strain taken from his own body and equally impressed by Robert's strength. Taking in a deep breath Watson led the way into Sherlock's private quarters and threw back the heavy covers that were laying over the large bed. "Here." He motioned with his outstretched hand.

Laying Sherlock down on the bed with the gentleness of a mother to her child, Robert relaxed his grip and stepped away from the wounded man.

"Thank you, Robert." Watson leaned over his patient and lift his hand to check his pulse once more.

"Do you need me to do anything else, Doctor?" Robert felt as though he needed to stay put.

"Yes, actually. In the room across the hall you'll find a large black leather bag. Please bring it to me."

Without a word Robert slipped out of the room to retrieve the requested item.

_**...to be continued...**_


	6. The Canonical Fifth

**Friday; November 9th, 1888:**

Robert watched from the opened doorway in silent admiration as Dr. Watson carefully cleaned, stitched and bandaged the many lacerations that disfigured Sherlock's chest and abdomen. The detectives arms and hands were covered in small defensive cuts and bruises from his attempts to fend off the Ripper. A single deep, bruised stab wound on Sherlock's right shoulder had surely damaged the ligaments and would require additional medical attention.

Sherlock seemed to be resting comfortably in his bed as Watson checked the large bump on the back of the downed detectives head.

"The fiend didn't receive enough satisfaction from the blade alone." Dipping a clean rag in clean, cool water Watson pressed the compress against the swelling contusion that may have fractured Sherlock's skull. "If the damned Ripper compromised his brain function I will dedicate the rest of my life to finding him and extricating justice myself!"

At these words Robert felt a sense of dread. "Doctor? Is he..."

"No, no!" Watson remembered that Robert was still with him. "He should recover fully, but it'll take some time."

"I see..." He anxiously rubbed at his chin.

A quiet knock on the doorframe drew Watson's attention. "Mrs. Hudson, can I help you?"

"Doctor, I heard voices talking, it's almost three in the morning, what's going on? Who is this man?" She looked Robert up and down and tightened the shawl around her shoulders.

"Mrs. Hudson this young man in Robert O'Shay. He was of great assistance in... Well, bringing Sherlock back to the flat."

Her eyes widened. "Mister Holmes? What has happened?" Her gaze focused on the bed.

Watson swallowed nervously. "He was... attacked, Mrs. Hudson. But he will be on the mend quite soon."

"Oh, dear. What can I do?"

"At the moment, nothing. Please, get some rest. I will stay with him until morning."

Reluctantly Mrs. Hudson backed away from the room, she took one last look at Sherlock over her shoulder before she disappeared into her own private quarters.

"Robert, I believe you should get some rest as well." Watson tried to give him a reassuring look but it didn't fool the sharp, young man.

"With all due respect doctor, I feel as though I should stay for a while longer. With Mr. Holmes gravely injured and your leg giving you pain, if the devil were to come back you'd be unable to defend yourself."

Watson just smiled and looked at Sherlock's sleeping face. "I'm a doctor first and soldier second, young man. After the time I've spent in Afghanistan I'm more than capable of defending myself, as well as the life of my patient and friend."

Robert laughed a little as he realized that his presence was no longer a necessity. "Very well then, I'll take my leave. But before I go, could I ask a small favor?"

Nodding Watson agreed to his request.

"When Mr. Holmes wakes up, could please tell him that William O'Shay lived and died a free man thanks to his investigation."

"Of course, but who is William?"

"William was my father. Arrested for a crime he didn't commit. My mother came to Mister Holmes eight years ago and he was able to prove my father's innocence. I never had a chance to thank him then, so I want to do it now."

Watson smiled. "I will deliver the message, Robert."

"Thank you. Goodnight doctor."

With that simple acknowledgment Robert disappeared from the room and locked the door behind him as exited the flat.

Placing a second, fresh compress on Sherlock's forehead Watson leaned back in his chair and continued to watch his injured friend as he slept. The night's events left Watson feeling exhausted, physically and mentally. He didn't want to sleep just yet, Sherlock still needed to be watched but the temptation of sleep was too great to resist. Within a few moments he had fallen into a deep slumber at Sherlock's bedside.

* * *

><p>A loud knocking on the front door startled Watson awake. He looked about the room in a daze before the events of the previous night crept back into his memory. Instinctively he pressed his finger's to Sherlock's wrist to check for his friends pulse. He was still alive, he survived the night. Pulling his watch from his trouser pocket Watson counted Sherlock's pulse and noted the time: 11am.<p>

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the doorframe, a constable was standing behind her. "Doctor."

Watson looked up at the dear sweet landlady and the visibly shaken constable that towered over her. "Yes, what is it?"

The constable took off his hat and stepped inside the room. "I'm most sorry to disturb you during this dire hour, but there was another murder last night."

"What?" Watson couldn't believe it. Even after the brutal assault the Ripper committed against Sherlock, the deviant still had the gall to attack another. "Where?"

"The address is 13 Miller's Court, just off Dorest Street of Spitalfields, sir."

Sighing heavily, knowing that his powers of deduction were only a fraction of Sherlock's skill, Watson was reluctant to accompany the constable to the scene of the crime and leave Sherlock unattended. "The victim, was female, wasn't she?"

"Yes, sir." The constable looked ill as he began talking about the crime. "The pattern of attack and... mutilation..." He seemed to struggle to get the very word out of his mouth. "is consistent with the Ripper."

Looking toward the landlady Watson asked with his eyes if she'd stay with Sherlock until he returned. She of course obliged and leaned over Sherlock's prone form.

"Mrs. Hudson please keep a cool compress on the large bump on the back of his head. I shall return soon."

* * *

><p>The journey to the scene of the crime seemed painfully slow for the exhausted doctor. His mind was preoccupied with Sherlock's health and keeping him alive, it was of little concern for him to deal with someone who was already deceased.<p>

Details of the scene, as told by the Constable, seemed to fit the pattern of past slayings, with one exception. This attack occurred inside the victim's residence rather than out on the street or in an alley. The carriage came to a halt, the escorting constable motioned for Watson to enter the isolated building, explaining that this victim had been found by a friend who came by for a visit. As Watson stepped into the room the sickening aroma of blood and death instantly turned his stomach.

The scene itself seemed to have been the work of Hell itself. The walls were soaked in the victim's blood, the floor was more blood that boards. The victim, who was identified as Mary Jane Kelly by a friend, had her face hacked away leaving only a tattered remnant of her former appearance. Her throat had been cut clean to the spine, her abdomen emptied of all her internal organs and her heart was taken from the scene by the Ripper.

Covering his mouth to quell the building nausea and to hide his horror Watson stepped back out of the bloodied room, but the abhorrent scene had already been engraved his mind. He looked at the investigating detectives, who were just as sickened at he was. "What kind of madman could perform such an act?"

Detective Lestrade had secured the scene. "That my friend, is a question that can only be answered by Jack the Ripper, himself."

_**...to be continued...**_


	7. From Hell

**Friday; November 9th, 1888:**

Unable to assist the investigating police force with the diabolical act committed by 'The Ripper', Dr. Watson returned to his flat of 221B Baker Street and his patient. The rain had finally stopped during the night but the streets were still damp and the air smelled of the trafficked water of the docks. The poor weather had caused Watson's limp to intensify but on that day his pain had been ignored as the good doctor's mind was focused solely on his injured friend, Sherlock Holmes.

As Watson entered the eerily still flat Mrs. Hudson scampered down the stairs and grabbed ahold of Watson's arms. "Oh, doctor! Thank heaven you've returned!"

"Mrs. Hudson?" Watson swallowed the fear that was creeping up his throat. "Has something happened to Holmes?"

"He's been muttering and fidgeting quite awful in his sleep. I worry he has a fever!" The elderly landlady was anxiously wading a used towel in her shaking hands as she spoke.

Watson patted her shoulder reassuringly as he made his way up the stairs and into Sherlock's private quarters. From the opened doorway Watson could see how pale Sherlock's face had become, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow and dark circles under his closed eyes. The injured detective appeared to be in the throes of a terrible nightmare, his bandaged hands balled into tight fists would uncontrollably lash into the air at the unseen foe.

Cautiously approaching the bed Watson carefully but firmly grabbed ahold of Sherlock's arms as he spoke reassuringly to the hallucinating man.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? It's alright, you're safe."

Even in the depths of his delirium Sherlock recognized the voice of his most trusted friend and colleague. "Wat...son?" His speech slurred with pain and exhaustion.

"That's right, I'm with you." He felt Sherlock's tense fists begin to relax.

"Watson?" His eyes slowly opened, the glazed intelligent eyes struggled to focus. "Am I...home?"

"Yes, you're in your bed on Baker Street." He patted Sherlock's arms with relief.

Sherlock's unfocused eyes darted back and forth as he scanned the hazy room and attempted to collect his thoughts. "I was...attacked."

"I know." Watson pulled back the covers from Sherlock's chest to examine the loose white bandages. "But you will recover in time."

"The Ripper." Sherlock suddenly gripped Watson's hand in fear. "It was The Ripper who attacked me!"

"I... I know." Watson didn't want to think about his friend being attacked by the same man who killed five women in increasingly brutal manners. "But you're safe now."

"No, Watson." Sherlock tried to sit up but Watson pressed him back down by the shoulders. "I saw him!"

"You... You know who he is?" Watson felt an odd sensation of amazement and dread.

"No. But I saw him."

"You'd recognize his face?"

"No. His eyes." Sherlock sighed in pain. "His eyes were all I could see, all I could focus my memory upon." His speech became clearer as his senses began to clear. "Never before have I seen such eyes, and I pray to God himself that I will never see their likes again."

Watson sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and turned his back to his friend. "Describe them please. I must know."

Sensing that Watson had witnessed something that he hadn't Sherlock obliged his friend's request. "His eyes were empty of humanity, Watson." He sighed and gripped at the deepest laceration that stretched across his chest beneath the bandages. "What I saw could only be described as the fiery hatred and rage that burns only in the depths of Hell. He is not a man, only a slayer of man."

"Holmes..." Watson knew Sherlock had the right to know about the latest murder. "There was another..." He sighed and turned to look into Sherlock's eyes. "There was another murder last night."

Sherlock tried to sit up again but Watson held him at bay against his pillow. "When?"

"Last night. She was discovered this early afternoon by a passing friend."

"I take it her death mirrored the previous four?"

"Yes and no."

"Do explain." Sherlock's curiosity had been piqued by Watson's somber reaction.

"She was undoubtedly slain by The Ripper, but her death was more brutal than we had ever seen. The way the fiend mutilated her body, and the blood... so much blood..."

Sherlock placed his pale hand on Watson's tense shoulder. "Watson, there was nothing that you nor I could have done to prevent her murder. I was laying, dying in the street while you saved my life."

"I know that Holmes, but you didn't see what I had seen." Watson rubbed at his eyes as if the very memory of the scene was still laying before him. "All the death that I had witnessed, all the death I had experienced, all the madness I've endured, this death is the death that will haunt my dreams for the rest of my days."

The desire to solve the case was too powerful, too fresh in his mind for Sherlock to lay idle and wait for a break in the case. Forcing himself to sit upright at last, he leaned forward and clutched at his aching chest. "Watson, I need my files."

"Holmes, don't strain yourself. You must rest!"

"My files, please Watson!"

Submitting to Sherlock's request Watson retrieved the case files that had been scattered about the detectives quarters and desk. "Here you are, now lay back." Watson tried to force Sherlock back down but the stubborn detective didn't budge.

Sherlock threw open the files and stared with great intent at the photographs of their main suspects. He focused on their eyes, trying to find a sense of familiarity from the night of his attack and the faces that started back from the photos.

Watson watched with great admiration as Sherlock's eye darted back and forth from photograph to photograph, his face stern and concentrated. The sweat on his brow increasing and dripping down the sides of his paling face. Watson's medicinal instincts kicked in and he pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead.

"Holmes, you're running a fever. I must clean and dress your wounds to prevent further infection."

The ailing detective didn't respond to his friends concern or to the hand pressed to his forehead.

"Holmes? Are you listening?" He retracted his hand and pressed his fingers to Sherlock's wrist. "Holmes?"

Sherlock's face paled further and his pupils dilated. "Watson! I believe I figured out The Ripper's identity!"

_**...to be continued...**_


	8. Light Within the Darkness

**Friday; November 9th, 1888:**

"What? Are you sure?" Watson was of course relieved at the prospect of a potential identity for The Ripper but didn't want to get too excited, after all, Sherlock was still recovering from a brutal assault and could have a compromised sense of judgment.

"Positive my dear Watson." Sherlock sighed heavily and flinched at the burning pain in his chest. "Fetch Lestrade, will you?"

"Better yet..." Watson laid Sherlock back down into the bed and replaced the cold compress that had tended to Sherlock's head injury. "I'll stay and tend to you and ask Mrs. Hudson to fetch Lestrade."

Mrs. Hudson had walked into the room with a fresh bundle of clean towels and overheard the request. "Oh, I see Mister Holmes is on the mend, that's wonderful. I will send for Inspector Lestrade and then make a fresh pot of tea."

Taking the towels from Mrs. Hudson Watson prepared to change Sherlock's bandages. "Until then I think its best to check your wounds. I will not allow you to succumb to something as silly as a fever."

"You're too kind Watson."

Just as Watson finished cleaning and redressing the bandages that concealed the many painful lacerations that marred the resilient detective's body, Inspector Lestrade entered the room with Mrs. Hudson at his side, a tray of tea in her hands.

"Holmes, good to see you're still among the living." Lestrade seemed genuinely surprised.

"I could say the same to you Lestrade, after all you've been patrolling the streets for a madman without the slightest inclination as to whom you should even be looking for." He answered with satisfying sarcasm in his voice.

"You've made a break in the case then?" Lestrade stood at the foot of the bed at full attention.

"Indeed." Sherlock sat up straight and rubbed at the sore bump on the back of his head. He watched quietly as Mrs. Hudson sat the tray of tea on the small table next to Sherlock's bed then took her leave. "You see Lestrade, I had the 'pleasure' of meeting this so-called Ripper face to face. Only through this particular meeting can one identify such a fiend."

"By God man, who is The Ripper? Get on with it!" Lestrade was anxiously chewing on his bottom lip awaiting Sherlock's answer.

"Here. This is the man you must lock away immediately." Sherlock grabbed a photo out of the pile of suspects and slid it to the end of the bed for Lestrade to see before taking a sip of tea. "This is the man who attacked me."

Lestrade picked up the photo, eyed it suspiciously and read the name that had been labeled at the bottom of the photograph. "Aaron Kosminski?"

"Yes. He is the man who had ambushed me in the dark, after killing four woman and before killing the fifth."

"How can you be certain, Holmes?" He tossed the photo back onto the bed.

"His eyes. I'll never forget those eyes for as long as I continue to draw breath." He placed the cup back on the tray.

Lestrade shook his head. "You know as well as I that this degree of identification will never be enough to convict."

"No, it won't. But it gives probable cause to have him shadowed by police until the proper evidence comes to light."

Sighing Lestrade made his way toward the door. "I doubt even the testimony of the great Sherlock Holmes will convince any judge in his right mind to put a shadow on a suspect with no evidence to substantiate the claim."

Watson couldn't believe what he had just heard. "Lestrade, you have to do something! If Holmes is correct in his identification, and I believe he is, then Kosminski is surely to attack again and you can prevent this, today!"

"I'm sorry Watson. There is little that can be done without physical evidence. I will report your claim Holmes, but I cannot promise you any results. Good day, gentlemen."

As Lestrade slipped out the doorway and disappeared down the stairs, Sherlock and Watson exchanged looks of disbelief. "I believe you, you're never wrong."

"Correction Watson, I'm _almost_ never wrong." Sherlock laid back down against his pillow and shut his eyes. "Almost."

"What is our next course of action?" Watson sat down in the chair next to Sherlock's bed.

"Next, I sleep and you return to your own quarters to do the same."

"How can..." In all the years he had known Sherlock, he had never seen the stubborn man simply give up on a case. "Why are you giving up?"

Sherlock opened one eye and focused on Watson. "I'm not giving up, I'm simply putting the case on hold. One day, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next year, The Ripper will be positively identified. With a name to go with the face, the most heinous murderer in all of England will lose his power of fear and every man, woman and child will sleep easier once his name is shouted for all to hear!"

Sighing Watson conceded to Sherlock's plan of action. "Very well. Goodnight Holmes." After checking Sherlock's pulse and fever one last time, he rose from the chair and walked to the opened doorway, shutting the door behind him.

"Goodnight Watson." Kosminski's photo lay discarded and forgotten on the floor.

**Saturday, November 10; 1888:**

Sherlock's recovery was slow but steady. Thanks to Watson's expertise in medicine Sherlock's fever and subsequent infection had been treated properly assuring a complete recovery within a few weeks.

Standing in front of his closed window Sherlock stared out at the dark and dreary streets of London. The horrific butchering of the fifth victim had driven many of the good citizens to remain in their homes. The reclusive behavior was a result of the fear, the confusion and insanity that had been plaguing the city for almost two months.

It was an era of unprecedented silence and an eerie quiet which the detective had learned to relish during his time as a reluctant patient.

A knock at Sherlock's door as it opened revealed Dr. Watson holding a small bundle of fresh towels. He noticed Sherlock standing at the window and frowned. "You know, the key to recovery is rest. One cannot rest if they are standing or staring blankly out a window. And you my good fellow are currently doing both."

Sherlock grinned slightly as he filled his pipe with fresh tobacco and struck a match. "You worry too much. I feel much stronger than I had previously. In fact, I feel the need to take a stroll and-"

Watson immediately cut Sherlock's sentence short. "Oh no you don't! Not now, not later and certainly not tomorrow." He approached his friend and carefully pulled him by the arm back toward the bed. "Now, rest. I don't want you physically exerting yourself in your already taxed state."

"Perhaps you're right." Sherlock willingly returned to the warmth of the soft bed. "I suppose I can wait for Lestrade to make a break in the case. He's been to do so sooner or later on at least one case in his career."

Smiling Watson exited the room and shut the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson had been waiting for an update on Sherlock's condition. "Doctor, how is he?"

"Quite fine Mrs. Hudson. He'll be up and about within the week."

"Oh good!" She patted Watson's arm joyously. "I don't think London would ever be the same without Mister Holmes patrolling the streets."

**December, 20; 1888:**

Another young woman had been found dead in Clarke's' Yard, High Street; Poplar. There was no sign of struggle to either the police or to the eye of Sherlock Holmes. It appeared the young woman, identified as Rose Mylett, was the tragic victim of suicide or had met an unfortunate end due to a drunken stupor.

However with the lingering stench of 'The Ripper' murders still tainting the air, it was widely believed by a jury that her death was in fact murder.

Sherlock paid little mind to the bias opinion of fearful, if not hysterical, citizens.

**July, 17; 1889:**

Seven months since the last suspicious death had not been an adequate frame of time for 'The Ripper' to escape the city's collective imagination. Alice McKenzie had been killed by the severance of her left carotid artery, and her body showed several bruises and cuts. She had been found Castle Alley of Whitechapel.

Despite the similarities to the previous, confirmed, Ripper murders, the pathologist who had examined three of the five victims did not believe that her murder had been committed by the same man. This death was believed to be at the hands of a copycat, which Sherlock heartily agreed.

**September, 10; 1889:**

Just over a year since the first victim of 'The Ripper' had been discovered, the infamous "Pinchin Street torso" made her grotesque debut. A headless and legless torso of a murder woman found on Pinchin Street in Whitechapel remained unidentified by investigating police, no one knew the name of the unfortunate victim. It had been concluded, however, that she had been murdered and dismembered elsewhere before being abandoned in Whitechapel.

She was not connect to 'The Ripper'.

**February, 13; 1890:**

The body of Frances Cole was found under a railway arch in Swallow Gardens of Whitechapel. Her throat had been cut but her body had not been mutilated. A man had been arrested after being identified as the last person seen with Cole, but was later released due to lack of evidence.

Years passed on without a definitive clue to aid in identifying 'The Ripper'. Hope began to fade that the serial murderer would ever be discovered, but Sherlock Holmes remained convinced that the anonymity of the vile deviant would not last forever.

"I assure you Watson..." Sherlock was sitting at his desk reviewing his past cases with his pipe between his teeth. "In years time, long after you or I continue to walk this Earth, new techniques and tests will be created that will bring more criminals to justice faster and more convincingly than we had ever dreamed possible. One day, a day that will bring about long buried memories and replace the darkest of nights with brighter days, the madman known as 'The Ripper' will finally be know. This revelation will strike fear into the heart of the criminal empire when they realize that justice will never stop seeking answers and reveal the truth."

_-**The End**_

**Author's Note: As of this year, 2014, DNA evidence had been traced from a shawl that belonged to Eddowes that can be traced back to Aaron Kosminski. In 1891 Kosminski had been committed to an insane asylum. Beforehand he lived in the Whitechapel District and suffered from auditory hallucinations, paranoia regarding other people feeding him and would refuse to bathe as well as physically abusing himself. The DNA evidence is still up for debate but this can be argued as conclusive evidence that Kosminski was the infamous 'Jack the Ripper'. **

**The DNA sample found was his semen, and only a truly crazy person would desecrate a body in such a loathsome manner, and that's my opinion.**


End file.
